


The Bones of Our Fathers

by bellatrix_la_dumb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Cas and Dean are married because I said so, Coming Out, Did I rewatch this episode for reference?, Do I remember any of season 14?, Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, Established Relationship, Hell no, Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Slurs, These are John Winchester hate hours, This fic might not even make any sense, Title taken from a Daughter song, no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatrix_la_dumb/pseuds/bellatrix_la_dumb
Summary: Rewrite of the end of 14x13 Lebanon.Dean's greatest wish was to have John back. But it wasn't because he missed him.Their reunion isn't as happy as it seemed.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 311





	The Bones of Our Fathers

**Author's Note:**

> It seems like every time I post something on here I'm like "Wow, I never thought I'd be writing this, but here I am." I am here in the year of our Lord 2021 writing destiel fanfiction during a pandemic while the world is ending right outside my window. I don't know what possessed me to write this. Actually, I do. Its my intense hatred for John Winchester and the way they tried to redeem his character on this show. I'm not about that. John Winchester should be rotting in hell. 
> 
> So this is my rewrite of Lebanon where Dean gets to confront John for being a horrible father. Sorry if it's a bit of a mess. I'm sure you all know how insane the past week has been.

After their little family dinner, Mary and Sam brought the dishes into the kitchen to wash them, leaving Dean and John alone at the table. The moment they left the room, a tension settled between Dean's shoulders, his hand growing tight around the sweating beer bottle whose label he'd been picking at all through their meal. Everything was good. Too good. Sam and Mary took John popping in from 2003 in stride, smiled at him so easily, sat around the table and drank and laughed at shared stories as if this was the way it had always been. Sam had his little talk with John, telling him he forgave him, that he loved him. Mary kissed him like he'd been gone a couple days, not over a decade. Everything was great. 

"You're married, son?"

John's gruff voice finally broke the silence. Dean's stomach dropped, mouth growing dry. He pulled the hand so obviously brandishing his wedding band away from the beer bottle like he'd touched a hot stove, bringing it down into his lap. He should have taken it off. Should have known John would notice. 

"Yeah," he breathed, his tongue feeling fat in his mouth. His ring was hot against his fingertips as he began to fiddle with it anxiously. It was too late now.

"That's. . .that's great." He smiled, wide and earnest in a way that made Dean's stomach clench. "I was scared that you'd never escape the life, never settle down. It's good you found someone. Is she here? Can I meet her?"

He turned away, suddenly unable to face him. His bottom lip trembled ever so slightly as he let out a short breath. He hoped John couldn't see. His mind was reeling with possible lies he could tell, convincing enough to get John off his back, to stop asking questions. He couldn't confront this now, not like this. Not when his father had turned up out of the blue from fucking 2003 and Mom and Sam were so happy to have what little time they had with him before the space-time continuum collapsed in on them. 

He turned back to him, about to weave some intricate story about a pretty hunter wife he'd met years ago and had some shotgun wedding in Vegas with, because hey, what did it matter, he was going to be zapped back to the Bush administration in a couple hours anyway, what harm could a few white lies do? But then he again felt the weight of the wedding band that he had become all too aware of and stopped himself. He was goddamn forty years old, ready to wet his pants at the sight of his deadbeat father like he was some weak-kneed little kid again. He'd fucking killed the Yellowed-Eyed Demon, iced the Devil, for God's sake he'd even defeated  _ the _ Death. The fact that he was still scared of John Winchester was almost laughable. He shouldn't have to be fucking terrified of his own father. He was so tired of having to pretend. 

Cas didn't deserve to be hidden. 

He took a deep swig of his beer to try and wash down the growing lump in his throat, taking a moment to gather himself, jaw working as he mustered up the balls to actually say the words out loud. 

"Cas, he's out right now." 

John's smile twitched, head tilting to the side. "Cas. . .Castiel? The angel?" His voice grew high in that disbelieving kind of way, as if he was expecting him to say it was all just a joke. 

He took another sip of his beer, ring clinking against the glass, this time looking John right in the eyes when he said "I'm married to Cas." 

John's chair creaked as he leaned back into it, crossing his arms over his chest, eyebrows rising. 

"What?"

John always got loud when he was angry. It had happened often. But Dean knew how to de-escalate, he was practically master at it. When Dad got quiet, though, that's when you knew it was bad. When he got quiet like that, that's when Dean knew he wasn't going to see Sam for a couple weeks, when he knew he'd be dropped off at some boys home or random friend of a friend's house just as the sun was starting to rise the next morning, without a word. He got quiet like that after Sam ran away to Stanford. But Dean was too old to send away. Those weeks of silence after the screaming match that sent Sam packing were the quietest he'd ever know. It was excruciating.

The silence that took over the library was deafening.

John just stared at him for a moment, chin tipped down against his chest, the dim yellow light of the bunker casting deep shadows into the depths of his eye sockets. Dean knew he was waiting for an explanation, but he knew from experience that those were always far more damning than helpful. Anyways, there was nothing to explain. He didn't owe John anything. Even if he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to form much of a coherent sentence at the moment. He was more concerned with trying to maintain the whiff of bravado he'd worked up over the course of their conversation. 

Sensing that he wasn't getting a response out of him, John took a long breath in through his nose, tilting his head to the other side, casting his face in even greater shadow. "You know it's just not right, son."

His voice was unnervingly low, falsely sensible, as if talking down to some naive child who was blissfully unaware of how the world worked. 

As if John actually knew  _ anything _ .

Dean couldn't help but laugh."Why, because God said so? Because I've met God, and he sure doesn't give a shit about whatever us little humans are getting up to." He turned back to the beer bottle now clutched in his fist. Soggy pieces of the label littered the table in front of him. There was something bitter bubbling up in his chest. "We're just ants trapped in an ant farm he left to rot in his backyard." 

"God? You've met God? Dean, what the hell is that supposed to mean?" John spat. Dean just rolled his eyes, as the absolute last thing he wanted to do at the moment was hold his Dad's hand through the whole realization that God was real and was just some scruffy self-obsessed douche.

Apparently that was the wrong response. 

John slammed his wide hand down on the table, toppling his empty beer bottle and sending it rolling off the edge as he lurched up from his chair, which made a screeching noise as it scraped against the floor. "Don't you dare roll your eyes at me, boy," he growled. Dean's eyes bore into the wood grain of the table, unable to look up at him. Suddenly he felt like he was thirteen again, a foot shorter and cowering under John's great height as he reprimanded him for mouthing off, misbehaving, not following orders. In those moments, all he could do was freeze up like a cornered animal and pray that John hadn't had too much to drink. He swallowed hard. The two and a half bottles of beer from dinner settled heavy in his stomach.

"What happened to you, Dean?" His voice became almost strained, listing from side to side as he shifted above him. Dean could imagine the creases forming on his forehead as his eyebrows furrowed, just like Sam's. They were always so maddeningly similar. He clenched the meat of his cheeks between his teeth as he watched John's knuckles go white as his hands gripped the edge of the table. "I didn't raise you this way."

"You didn't raise me at all, Dad," he growled through clenched teeth, the words slipping from his lips before he could process what he was saying. His mouth went dry. For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't dare look up. John's breathing picked up, knuckles going bone white curled around the table. It felt as if the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. He half expected to see his shallow breaths come out of his mouth like smoke.

With a swift movement he stood up from his chair, skin prickling with that electric thrill of adrenaline pumping through his veins. He didn't have to sit there and be intimidated by his father. Didn't have to sit there and cower like a good little soldier. Why did that fucking pearl bring him here anyways? Ten years ago Dean may have wished for his father to come back, but now? With Michael locked up in his head and the world quickly snowballing into chaos for the tenth time in the past decade, the list of things he'd wish for above bringing John Winchester back from the dead was a mile long. So much had changed since he'd died selling his soul to save Dean, that image of the hero he'd worshipped had faded so much that he could hardly remember it. The thought churned up something acrid in his stomach, forcing its way up his throat like bile.

He snagged his bottle off the table, taking another grounding swig as he began to pace. "You know, I've realized a lot since you've been gone." John didn't move, his eyes following Dean like a hawk watching its prey. "About myself, about you. You weren't the man I built you up to be. You were just a widower hell-bent on revenge. Not a father. I had to be there for Sam because you never were, but there was never anyone to be there for me." 

The words began to get caught in his throat, but he forced them out, masking the shake of his voice with all the venom of a decade's worth of pent up resentment. "I didn't deserve all the shit you put on me. I deserved someone who actually gave a shit, who didn't expect obedience in return for love. I deserved a childhood, a home, stability. I deserved a fucking life, and you took that away from me," he spit, jabbing a finger at John. There was something hot swelling at the backs of his eyes, but he blinked it away, desperate to not cry in front of his father.

"I did what I could, Dean-"

"No you didn't! You could have moved on, mourned Mom's death in a healthy way instead of roping us into your crazed obsession. You could have given us a normal life instead of having us live on the road and raising us to be killers. You could have let us all die in that fire, put us out of our misery. Anything would be better than this."

John's posture relaxed ever so slightly, something softening in his dark eyes. "Don't say that Dean. You've done good. You've saved people, saved the world, you've got you a home here, people you care about. You've got Sam. I know I did some bad in raising you two, but. . .there's things you've done that I'm proud of, and I wouldn't wanna change that."

Dean turned away, eyes fluttering closed.  _ Things you've done that I'm proud of _ , not  _ I'm proud of you. _ Of course. He'd saved the world time and time again, yeah, but there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Something that made him irredeemable in his father's eyes, despite everything he'd sacrificed. But he was right. Dying wasn't better than this. Dean could say he craved a normal life all he wanted, but when it came down to it there's not much he'd think he'd change. He'd seen time and time again what other paths offered and all of them had something missing, something he wasn't willing to give up. Here, he'd saved so many people, he had the Bunker, he had Sammy, his Mom, the kid,  _ Cas _ . If his life had gone any other way, he might have never met Cas. No apple pie, hunter-free life was worth that. 

A swift rush of air nearly startled him off his feet, and when he opened his eyes he was met with those stark blue ones staring back at him.

Cas gripped his arm, steadying him. "Dean, are you alright? I thought I heard your prayer."

Dean let out the ghost of a laugh, making a note to remember to put less  _ intent _ behind his thoughts about Cas. 

"Cas? I thought you'd gone Full Metal Jacket with Zackariah."

He squinted, head turning to the side like a curious cat. "What? I don't have a metal jacket-"

Dean couldn't help but smirk, setting his bottle back on the table. "Not the point, how are you here with all this wibbly wobbly time shit going on?"

"Oh, the timelines that are currently converging in on themselves, which you seemingly forgot to fill me in on?" Cas grumbled. God, he was really turning into a nag. "They still overlap in many places, but if we don't do something soon, I won't be around much longer to help." 

Something cold clenched around his chest at the thought. They knew Mom might fade away, but in all the chaos of his Dad coming back, he hadn't thought about Cas. Something deep within him knew he should feel ashamed, but he knew it was because Cas was just  _ always there _ . It was actually quite difficult to get rid of him, despite the monumental efforts of some of the biggest of bads, so the idea that he wouldn't be around once all this was said and done hadn't even crossed his mind.

He curled a hand around his shoulder, fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat. "Uh, we've got it under control here, buddy."

Cas nodded, his eyes shifting over Dean's shoulder, obviously taking notice to the unfamiliar and domineering presence in the room. 

Cas's firm grasp on his arm was definitely a comfort after the conversation he'd just had, but the angel's sudden appearance wasn't exactly ideal. After the way his father had reacted, the idea of him and Cas formally meeting didn't exactly make it onto his bucket list.

He finally turned around to face John, who had his arms crossed and was looking between them with a reserved expression on his face. He wondered if it would be best to tell Cas to poof until they'd righted this whole predicament, and hopefully be able to drop this whole squabble with John altogether for Sam's and Mom's sakes. But then he reminded himself that Cas deserved better than to be hidden away.

"Uh," he cleared his throat, figuring that this situation couldn't get any stranger. "Cas, this is John, my dad."

Something lit up on his face, a slight smile spreading across his cheeks as he brushed past a mildly confused Dean and made his way over to the other man. "John Winchester, I have always wanted to meet you."

Dean didn't even have the opportunity to move before Cas had punched John so hard across the jaw that he was sent stumbling sideways into the table.

"Cas!" He exclaimed, lunging forward to pull the angel away but instead dodging a swing from his father as he stumbled back to his feet. When his other fist came up in an attempted uppercut to Cas's jaw, Dean caught it, wrenching his arm backwards until his hand was forced to release and he gasped in pain.

Dean utilized John's momentary distraction to grab the lapels of his shirt with his free hand and yank him towards him, staring him right in the eyes. "Don't you dare hit him," he growled into his face.

Behind John, he saw Sam and Mary frozen in the doorway, Mary with her hand clamped over her mouth in shock, Sam standing with his shoulders squared, wide eyes darting between them.

"You're right, Dean," John smirked, a hint of blood peeking from between his lips. "I did fail you. I failed because I raised a son who'd let his faggot husband hit his own father."

Dean's fist connected with his jaw before the last words had fully left his mouth, and this time when he fell back against the table, he slumped to the floor and didn't get up.

Dean didn't process much after that. He remembers Mary screaming and rushing over to her husband's side. He remembers Sam giving him the most incredulous look as he slipped out of the room. He remembers his hand aching, remembers Cas healing the broken skin on his knuckles with a soft kiss. He remembers falling into his arms and finally letting all the tension of the day weep from his muscles. Remembers realizing how tired he was, falling asleep on Cas's chest as they sat together on their bed in silence. 

A couple hours later, he was woken up by Sam knocking on his door. There was a tension in his face that Dean knew he was probably the cause of. Dean gave Cas a look over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him, leaving him and Sam alone in the long dim hallway.

"Dad alive?" He mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Sam snorted, leaning against the wall. "Yeah. He could always take a punch. Woke up a few minutes after. He seems to be acting like you don't exist right now."

Dean nodded, knowing Sam knew that wasn't what he was asking. He sighed, looking down at his feet. There was an odd tension in his chest. He knew that knocking his Dad out cold was no real solution to anything, but there was something deep inside him that was hoping that it'd magically bring him to his senses. 

"Mom's pretty shaken up, but she seemed more angry at Dad than you."

Dean wasn't sure what to say. Their Dad had come back from the dead by some miracle and they were given a day to finally be a family in a way they hadn't been allowed in over thirty-five years. And he'd decked him right in the face. 

"I'm not mad at you, you know," Sam said, as if reading his mind. "I mean, you know how angry I'd get at him. I'd be lying if I said there weren't several times when I would have given anything to just sock him in the mouth, especially if he'd said. . .something  _ like that _ to me."

Dean shrugged, still not looking up. "I mean, it was my wish. I brought him here in the first place. God knows why."

"Well,  _ something _ in you wanted him here, you might just not realize what." 

At that, Dean glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't want this. I'd never wish for this."

"Well, have you thought that maybe you wanted him back so you  _ could _ punch him in the face?" Sam said, the hint of a humorous smile starting to ghost his cheeks.

"What are you talking about, why would I wish our old man back to life just to punch his lights out?"

"Maybe what you really wanted was to finally have a chance to confront him about the way he treated you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't go all Hannibal on me, Sammy." 

"Oh, come on, Dean, it's not that hard to imagine. It's like a ghost with unfinished business. There's things you never got to say to him before he died and the pearl gave you the chance to tie up some loose threads." 

"Why would I bring him here just so he could be disappointed in me?"

"So you could show him how much you don't care." Sam was fully smiling now. 

Dean gave a weak smile back. Did he care? He'd spent half of his life religiously devoted to appeasing his father. Those first few years after he died were some of the most difficult he'd known, as he barely knew who he was uninfluenced by his father's will. He made stupid mistakes, let Sam die, sold his soul, kick-started the apocalypse. He'd have given anything to have had his father there to tell him what to do. He was always good at following orders. And Dad always knew best. But there were times when Dean stepped back and looked at his past through the eyes of a scarred adult rather than the rose-tinted glasses of a naive child, and cracks would form in the shining armor he'd given his father, and as the years went on those moments of realization became more frequent, the cracks growing deeper until the whole facade shattered. He wasn't sure exactly when it happened, but one day he stopped revering his father as a hero and began to see him for who he really was. 

But had he stopped caring what he thought of him? He wasn't so sure yet. 

Dean sniffed, looking away. "Uh, so how much longer do you think we've got until Mom and Cas Marty Mcfly out of here and you turn into a douchy lawyer?" 

Sam chuckled. "Not long. Mom and I already said our goodbyes. That's why I came to get you, to know if you wanted to. . .you know."

Dean stared at the wall. Rationally he knew going in there to confront his father would result in nothing but more fighting, more hurt. But he'd never gotten to say goodbye to him. In that hospital, when he'd brought Dean back from the dead at the expense of his own life. He'd never gotten to thank him. But then he remembered the last thing his father had said to him before willingly giving his soul over to the Yellow-Eyed demon. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard.

"No, I don't think I do."

"Oh, well, uh," Sam stuttered, as if he wasn't expecting that response. He fumbled at his pockets, pulling out the pearl still waded up in that little pouch, "I brought this for you. Thought you might want to do the honors." 

Dean took the pouch, loosened the drawstring, laid the pearl in the palm of his hand. It was strange how an object so small and innocent looking could cause so much turmoil. When he had woken up that morning he'd never have imagined he'd see his father alive and in the flesh. He'd wondered a couple times throughout his life what he'd say if he would ever see him again.  _ I'm sorry for letting Sammy die. I'm sorry for selling my soul. Sorry for not being strong enough in hell. Sorry for being gone when I should have been watching Sammy, stopping him from drinking that demon blood. Sorry for not finding a way to save him from the pit. Sorry for not being a good enough son.  _ But after a while, he'd stopped wishing to say sorry.  _ I gave everything for you, you obsessed bastard. I never had a childhood because of you. You put too much on me, expected the world from me, I was just a kid.  _ But even longer after that he'd stopped thinking about him altogether.

Dean had made mistakes, plenty of them, some he knew he could never make up for. He was human. His father was too. Driven by a love for his family so intense it became his own detriment. Dean couldn't fault him for that when he was the same way. But he didn't have to forgive him. Didn't have to forgive him for the way he hurt him without apology. He could hate him for what he did, but he couldn't hate  _ him _ . He couldn't.

He held out the pearl.

"No, Sammy, it's okay, you can do it."

Thankfully Sam didn't make too much of a fuss about the whole thing, taking back the pearl and leaving Dean alone in the hallway without question. Dean felt bad for leaving him to deal with John on his own. But he wasn't alone. Mom was there. They had each other.

Dean, feeling lighter than he had all day, turned back to the door to his room, taking in a shaking breath before opening it. Cas was sitting right where he left him, the book he'd been reading over the past couple nights open in his lap. He looked up at Dean with a questioning expression, knowing Dean would talk about it if he wanted to. He didn't. He sprawled out across his side of the bed, shoving his face into his pillow, ready to put the day behind him. Cas's hand curled around his silently, giving it a gentle squeeze. He closed his eyes, knowing that when he opened them next, things wouldn't be back to normal, as there was nothing normal about their lives, but he'd wake up next to Cas and be happy in the best way he knew how, with what little good he had in the life he'd cultivated for himself. And that was enough.


End file.
